


Burn Your Eyebrows Off

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Memorial Day, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memorial Day weekend means eating too much steak and drinking beer on their patio. This year is a little different for Dean, but he learns to let things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Your Eyebrows Off

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by an ask from tumblr about Dean; thanks anon! <3
> 
> short and sweet. :D i hope your weekends are going fabulously. 
> 
> yes, i have almost burned my eyebrows off turning on a propane grill. XD let us never speak of it again.

It's important to buy the right kind of flank steak. 

"Through the machine and hand trimmed," Dean reminds Sam as he's writing the grocery list for the weekend. "Don't fuckin' forget or your ass is eating salad." 

"It would literally kill you to eat one vegetarian meal a week, wouldn't it?" Sam snaps back with a huff. Dean knows that Sam doesn't appreciate being talked to like he's five years old by a man who repeatedly cannot remember where his keys are or which CCR album he already owns so he ends up buying three copies of the same one. So. What. Tough cookies.

The list is folded and tucked into the front pocket of Sam's shirt. Dean pats it and gives Sam the most obnoxious big brother smirk he possibly can--thanks to years of practice this is possible to pull off on a moment's notice.

"Through the machine and hand trimmed, Sasquatch." 

 

Five pounds of flank steak--through the machine and hand trimmed--marinate in a large red container for 24 hours in a bath of Corona beer, fresh limes, and salt. Dean checks on the precious every four hours, even at two, four, and six in the morning. This is god damned important. Fuck the potato salad. Screw the coleslaw. Bite me, chips and dip. Ahh... he'll be nice to the handsome chocolate rum cake sitting pretty but it's still not as important as the precious. 

For whatever reason, Sam insists on doing everything. He marches his Sasquatch body up to Dean and looms over him until he has retreated to a stool in the corner of the kitchen. From his perch, Dean watches Sam take forever to chop onions and put way too much mayonnaise on the potato salad. 

"Make yourself useful and go do your knee exercises," Sam snips, struggling with the onions still. "Quit staring, Dean!" 

Shooed away like a common house cat, Dean leaves but he refuses to do his exercises. Fucking physical therapist. What the hell can a twenty-three year old Doogie Howser look-a-like tell him about his knee? He's supposed to soak it in epsom salt every day but that takes too long. He must be available to put out the fire that Sam will start while making beginner's potato salad and throwing together a bag of coleslaw. 

It makes him anxious to think of his kitchen being messed with by the hands of Sam Winchester. The man burns cereal. Hold a melon baller in front of him and he'll say, "That's a small ice cream scoop." 

Everything had better be back in its place, unharmed. After re-alphabetizing two crates of vinyl, he can't take it anymore. He has to see what's going on. He has to meddle. He has to make sure Sam isn't getting mayonnaise on the ceiling. That is a legitimate concern--Sam is centimeters shorter than the ceiling. 

"You just had to come in here and fuss," Sam grumbles, juggling the precious, the long tongs, and two beers. "Get outside and open these up." 

Dean doesn't argue. He follows Sam out to their tiny backyard patio and pops open the beers. Sam has brought out a Corona for Dean and a fruity pale ale for himself. Dean takes sips out of Sam's anyway. 

A lawn chair has been set out with a pillow. Sam points to it. "Your ass goes there and no where else."

"My ass could be other places, you know." 

"Uh huh," Sam murmurs, looking over the grill, "like on the couch. Or on the street. Or in the car." 

"You'd miss it."

"Your saggy butt stinking up the bathroom? I don't think so." 

Carefully, Dean watches Sam's movements. Shit. Does he know how to work the grill? Two summers ago, Dean bought one charcoal and one propane grill. Neither are anything fancy but they do the trick. The propane one was the easiest to haul out of the garage for Memorial Day weekend. It's still not quite summer here though a few days during the week have reminded them of what's in store for July. 

"Turn the valve."

"What valve?" 

"That valve."

"This valve?" 

"That is not a valve, that's the knob!"

"Shut up." Sam reaches for the actual valve and turns it too much. He's bitching that he totally Googled how to do this and if Dean can manage to work it, so can he. Also, Sam has lit his fair share of corpses so a propane grill in their own backyard can't be that much different. 

The stiffness in Dean's knee and Sam's quick hands don't let him get up in time to stop what happens next.

A huge flame erupts from the tiny grill.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!" Dean shouts, scrambling to his feet, placing his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Are you okay? What the fuck, let me see."

Aside from being spooked and bright red from embarrassment, Sam is fine. Dean sighs in relief. The grill is ready, that's for sure. "Two inches closer and you'd have burned your eyebrows off."

Somewhat shakily, Sam nods. He picks up the tongs.

"Just let me do it," Dean insists. "I can do the grill, Sammy. You don't have to."

Sam shakes his head no. "That... that's not the point. I... I want to do this."

"Why? It's just dinner."

"Because it's for  _you_ ," Sam blurts out. "That's the point!" 

Oh. 

The determined look in Sam's eyes tells Dean that this is not his battle to win. He can do this. He can allow Sam to take over the precious and serve him his share of glorious, through the machine hand trimmed carne asada with scoops of potato salad and other sides. He can munch on chips and dip and toss back this beer in the meantime. He can admire the curve of Sam's ass in those goofy cargo shorts that totally show his chicken legs. 

He can deal with Sam almost burning his eyebrows off. Almost is the key word. It's okay.

Settled back into his chair, knee up and his beer handy, Dean makes an announcement.

"I want my steak a little pink, Sammy." 


End file.
